


Foxfire

by MyNameIsTea



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Dancer Romano, Drinking to Cope, M/M, Mild Smut, One-Sided Relationship, the death is also vague, vague smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 09:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10303259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyNameIsTea/pseuds/MyNameIsTea
Summary: His dancer had slipped out of his life just as quickly as he entered it, but Arthur still couldn’t bring himself to let go.





	

They’d come into town with little fanfare, a traveling caravan of entertainers. 

Arthur had just been curious, having nothing better to do that night. He’d sat in the small crowd, watching with moderate interest. The curtains had just closed on the last act, a momentary pause.

Then the curtains parted again, and he stepped onto the stage.

Arthur’s mouth fell open, watching with awe.

He was a dancer, exotic, enticing. Full lips, bright hazel eyes, smooth tanned skin, all swaying to the music. Covered in just the barest amount of crimson silks and golden bangles, accentuating his movements.

The dance was almost hypnotic, as Arthur found himself unable to focus on anything but him. If you asked him what the backup dancers looked like, he couldn’t tell you.

When the dance ended, he stood up, walking around to the back, not even caring about the next act. He was likely not allowed back here, but he didn’t care; he had to talk to that dancer.

He saw the man, resting after the dance, and stammered out a greeting.

He didn’t expect the dancer to glare at him, fire in his eyes, and snap at him in broken English, but it did little to dissuade him. It just drew him in, like a moth to a flame.

It took him an hour just to get his name; Lovino. Even when he wasn’t dancing, Arthur was so taken with him, fixated. He was patient as he talked to him, just wanting to know more.

By the time he’d convinced the dancer to spend some time with him, just them, it was growing dark. But it was so worth the time.

He didn’t remember how, exactly, he’d managed to get the dancer into his bed, all he remembered was feeling that soft skin under his hands, lithe body bouncing in his lap, full lips parted. He moaned, eyes glazed over with lust, looking up at the other with a reverent awe. He was gorgeous. Arthur had never seen a sight quite so exciting as his dancer coming undone over him, moaning pretty-sounding words in a language he didn’t recognize. 

It was quick, heated, and fleeting. Before he knew it, it was over, his gypsy curled up on the sheets, shying away when Arthur attempted to move closer. So he contented himself with admiring from afar, captivated by him.

It took him at least ten minutes to realize that his dancer had taken the clean side of the bed, leaving him to lay in the mess they’d made.

The next morning, his dancer was gone, without a trace, not even a note. Arthur rushed out of the house, looking around frantically, searching for him. 

The caravan had left, too, moving on from this city.

If it wasn’t for how vivid his memories were, still so fresh in his mind, it would’ve been like the man had never been here.

“I’ll find you again,” he’d sworn that day, “No matter how long it takes.”

He’d grown obsessed with his dancer, abandoning his job, his home, everything, in his quest to find him again. Everything would be alright, he just needed to find him.

He never did.

His dancer had disappeared without a trace, like he was merely a mirage. Whenever he asked about a caravan, no one had any idea, he couldn’t even find a lead. He’d been searching for years now.

But he still saw his gypsy every night, in his dreams. Haunting him, tempting him, he saw the vivid image whenever he closed his eyes, clear as ever. He was like foxfire.

Tonight he lay in a filthy hotel, a far cry from his old house, cradling a bottle of whiskey. He’d always enjoyed a drink, and it’d spiraled far out of control, just like his obsession. 

Was his beautiful dancer even real? He wasn’t sure anymore, he just kept chasing. It was almost like the myth of the will-o-wisps, leading one to his doom. But… No. He had to be real. He’d felt him under his hands during that one blissful night. He’d felt real, sounded real. And yet, Arthur seemed to be the only one who even knew he existed.

He felt drowsy, eyelids drooping, feverish. He didn’t fight it; why should he? At least he could see his dancer in his dreams. If he couldn’t find him in reality, maybe he could just stay in his dreamland. He could be happy there.

His eyes slipped shut, and he drifted off, bottle slipping out of his hands and crashing to the floor, glass shards and drops of whiskey scattering over the wood.

He never woke up.

His dancer had slipped out of his life just as quickly as he entered it, but Arthur still couldn’t bring himself to let go. They all said his obsession would be the death of him.

He’d wasted his life chasing after his dancer, but he’d finally found him again. Even if it’d cost him his life.

And he’d never let him go again.


End file.
